


A Habit of Shores

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25070476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Crowley wakes up on the 5th of July without realising that he rejected several calls from Aziraphale in his sleep, thinking he was snoozing his alarm. He drives to the bookshop to apologise and discovers that Aziraphale wants to have A Conversation. [Or: A character study of Crowley, post-Armageddon't.]
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 307
Collections: AwakeTheSnake, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	A Habit of Shores

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring art by the amazing [lonicera](https://twitter.com/loni_capri)!
> 
> Thank you as always to my beta [Offgray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Offgray) who made this fic so much better!

_What the_ Hell _is that infernal racket?_

It took Crowley a few seconds to recognise the sound of his own phone ringing, coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear. He groped blindly for his phone, which had gone and buried itself in the bedclothes in the past two months he had been asleep. _Five more minutes._ He cracked an eye open for a second, squinting against the brightness of the screen, and promptly collapsed back onto the pillows.

It felt like only a second before the alarm started up again. He groaned and hit snooze once more. There was an odd sensation creeping through him like a chill, a half-remembered echo of why he had been sleeping to begin with. _Breaking all the rules,_ a familiar voice whispered in his mind, and he shivered. _Out of the question._

The third time, he dismissed the alarm entirely.

Strangely enough, his phone started ringing a fourth time. He snarled and turned his phone off without looking at it before sinking back down deep into the oblivion of sleep.

* * *

Crowley stirred, only half-awake. It was cosy warm and snug under the covers. For a few moments, he lay still, his corporation still heavy with sleep, trying to decide if he was ready to be awake yet or not. Would it be so bad, really, to choose to be unconscious a little while longer?

At last, he sighed and opened his eyes, the gilded sculpture of a serpent on his bedside table slowly coming into focus. He yawned, blinking at the ceiling drowsily, wondering what time it was. Thin lines of sunlight from the edges of his blackout curtains lay across the black covers of his bed.

He stretched luxuriously, his mind pleasantly blank. He loved his long naps, the indulgence of allowing himself to shut down and forget everything for as long as he could. It was like hitting a reset button. _Tabula rasa,_ a slate wiped empty, the relief of the nothingness of sleep carrying over for a few hours into the waking.

After a few minutes, he finally got up, snapping his fingers to make the bed, and slouched his way to the bathroom. It was a bathroom that existed mainly for the look of it, though he did love the burn of a shower hot enough to scald all the tension out of his wasteland of a body, the scorching torrent of water washing everything off him, leaving his skin tingling with the heat.

Some human habits had their uses. Crowley bent over the sink to wash his face, the water turned to the coldest setting, using the only face towel he owned to dry himself off after. There was only a single set of towels in this bathroom, a matching set of Egyptian long-staple cotton towels in black, embroidered with his initials in dark red.

Crowley glanced at himself in the mirror above the sink. He was still rumpled with sleep, though slightly more alert now that he had washed his face. He frowned, noting the awkward length of his hair. For a moment, he deliberated on whether to trim it back to the shorter style he had been wearing the past year. Maybe he’d grow it out again. He hadn’t done that in a while. He snapped his fingers and his hair was arranged in artfully tousled waves, the sides and top carefully pulled into a small bun away from his face. _That’ll do._

He slid open the door of the closet that spanned the entire length of one wall. The closet contained a dizzying array of tops, bottoms, and dresses in varying shades of black and dark grey – all except one rack at the very end of the closet.

Aziraphale had hinted once that perhaps Crowley might want to try branching out into other colours for a change, though he’d never understood why, when Aziraphale himself liked things to remain constant, static, a routine with no disruption.

Crowley had remembered. He always remembered when Aziraphale’s words had that peculiar bite of venom to them, seeping into his veins.

As a result, he now owned exactly three items of clothing that were neither black nor grey – a midnight blue blazer, an indigo button-down shirt, and a turtleneck in dark green.

Crowley’s gaze lingered on the turtleneck for a few moments, hesitating before pulling it off its hanger. He turned to face the full-length mirror that lined the wall opposite the closet.

Six thousand years of putting on and shedding personas like snakeskin had left Crowley feeling ambivalent about clothing. Sure, he cared a lot about how he looked, but at the end of the day, the clothes were simply part of the job, nothing but window dressing for whatever temptation he had to accomplish.

The only thing that he had held onto throughout all those thousands of years was the colours he wore, a reminder of the form he had once worn, the enormous length of him coiled and powerful and covered in shimmering black scales, in sharp contrast with the deep red of his underbelly.

Crowley lifted the turtleneck, held it up to his chest, surveying himself in the mirror, his body of sharp right angles and long ungainly limbs, the hard edges of bone jutting out in his face. Who was he now, he wondered, now that Hell had unshackled its chains from around his neck?

He sighed to himself and tugged the turtleneck on. No sense in brooding this early in the day.

After a few more minutes of looking through his closet, he found a pair of high-waisted trousers and pulled them on, tucking the turtleneck in and fastening everything together with his snakeskin belt. He gazed at himself at the mirror, smoothing his hand over his hair to settle the dishevelled curls. It certainly wasn’t his usual look – the silhouette was much looser than he was accustomed to, especially around his legs, refining the angular edges of his body into something softer, more relaxed.

It felt strange, now that Crowley thought about it, to be dressing for no other reason other than to find something he liked to wear. He wore clothes the way he had once worn armour to shield himself, a disguise shifting his identity from one moment to the next.

It always took time to settle down into new skin after shedding the old, he supposed. New skin was soft and vulnerable, and there was nothing Crowley detested more. What was he now, without the colours of the serpent? He touched the green fabric tentatively, his eyes still adjusting to the unprecedented sight, feeling strangely lost for a moment.

Crowley crossed the room and opened a small drawer containing his prized watches. He had amassed a small but impressive collection of them over the years. He considered his options – the Audemars Piguet, maybe, or the Urwerk? In the end, he lifted out his favourite, the Devon, and pulled the strap securely onto his wrist. Not everything had to change, after all.

One last look at his reflection. As colours went, it wasn’t bad. Green like the colour of a leaf at twilight, muted enough that it didn’t call attention to itself. But it was enough of a change that it was beginning to disorient him, a sensation of coming unanchored, set adrift. He smoothed down a wrinkle around his waist, suddenly feeling anxious. He wondered if Aziraphale would notice the difference.

He should probably call Aziraphale. He stuck his hands into his pockets before remembering that he had left his phone on the nightstand next to the bed. He walked back to his bedroom and picked up his phone.

Huh. He didn’t remember turning it off.

Crowley switched his phone back on and sat down on the bed, watching the screen power up. He pressed the “Call” button and scrolled through it idly, looking for Aziraphale’s name before realising his name was at the top of the list. He scrolled back up. The very top entry listed Aziraphale’s name… and four rejected calls.

His eyes widened. The calls were timestamped 10:00 am, 10:02 am, 10:05 am, 10:07 am from July 1.

He hastily checked the date.

It was 3:58 pm on July 5.

_Shit shit shit shit shit._

* * *

Cars honked angrily as Crowley careened down the road, the wheels of the Bentley screeching against the asphalt. He had tried to call Aziraphale six times, but there was no answer. _To Hell with it_ , he’d thought, and strode out the door, snapping his fingers impatiently to get the elevator to his floor, a pair of sunglasses finding its way into his hand and onto his face. He’d told Aziraphale he’d set his alarm for July. Obviously, Aziraphale would expect him to show up on the first day of the month.

He groaned and started scrolling through the news on his phone, glancing up occasionally at the road. _Bloody stoplights._ Something about a… support bubble? He shrugged to himself – whatever it was the humans were doing, what mattered was that he could visit Aziraphale without being told off. In any case, he was perfectly ready to be told off. He hadn’t even checked the news before racing to the bookshop.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if Aziraphale might be upset, or even angry that he hadn’t returned his calls. He exhaled audibly through his nose, worrying at his bottom lip nervously. As the stoplight turned green, he made an abrupt right turn, tires screaming on the pavement. He dimly heard the drivers yelling profanities in his direction, and he grinned. Nothing wrong with a bit of trouble, he thought, pulling into a miraculously empty parking slot right in front of Aziraphale’s favourite bakery.

* * *

The bookshop schedule for Sunday is the same as the one for Tuesday, Crowley remembered distantly scribbling it on a piece of cardboard for Aziraphale, though that really didn’t mean anything when it came to Aziraphale’s opening hours. True to form, the sign in the window was turned to “CLOSED” at 4:04 in the afternoon, but he wasn’t worried – the bookshop door always opened for him.

The chimes rang softly as the door clicked shut behind him, but there was no sign of Aziraphale. Crowley took a surreptitious look around before flicking out his tongue. He caught the fragrance notes of old books, dry and musky and reminding him of vanilla. Black tea, perfectly steeped, with just a touch of sugar. All over, the familiar scent of Aziraphale, rich as milk and honey, with a hint of the lavender soap he was so partial to, and at the heart of everything, something indefinable that always left Crowley feeling off-balance. His sense of gravity had been centred on Aziraphale for so long, pulling him ever closer, a moth to a searing flame.

“Angel?”

The sound of the chimes was normally enough to get Aziraphale’s attention, but today… Crowley peered into the back room, but there was no sign of Aziraphale there, either.

His mouth turned downwards. Aziraphale was undeniably here somewhere. Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s presence in the bookshop, the magnetic force of it that tugged at him the way it always had all these thousands of years – which meant that there was only one other place Aziraphale could be.

Crowley’s eyes flicked towards the staircase that led to the second storey. It housed the rest of the books that didn’t fit into the many shelves and tables of the bookshop, but he also knew that Aziraphale had a little room there for himself, a private space that Crowley had never seen. How angry would Aziraphale be if he went up there now?

Crowley debated with himself before deciding to head upstairs, armed with the bag of still-warm pastries – fruit tarts studded with berries and dusted with sugar, flaky croissants rich with butter, even a loaf of Battenburg cake. There was no way Aziraphale could be upset with him after smelling this.

For a few seconds, Crowley hesitated outside the door, his arms tense around the paper bag. He had come unasked for four days late, after rejecting all of Aziraphale’s calls and turning his phone off, and now he was about to enter Aziraphale’s private space without an invitation. But this was how he was, how he had always been, battering himself restlessly against the rocks of Aziraphale’s coldness, wearing him down ever so slowly until the sharp edges had smoothed down, eroded into something resembling affection.

He raised his hand and rapped his knuckles softly against the door.

“Aziraphale?”

There was no answer. Crowley knocked again, louder this time, but still there was no response. His hand closed around the doorknob and turned it gently, his heart beating fast. Would Aziraphale ever forgive him this intrusion? He swallowed, his mouth dry, and pushed the door open slowly.

The room was small, but brighter than Crowley had expected. The afternoon sun cascaded across the single bed and the corner table that stood next to it, and motes of dust danced in the sunlight as the air stirred, provoked by Crowley’s presence. Aziraphale lay on the bed on top of the covers, still fully dressed, his head turned slightly to one side so his cheek brushed against the pillow under his head.

There was a long moment where Crowley simply stared in amazement, held spellbound by the loveliness of the angel as he lay in peaceful slumber. Aziraphale was so beautiful that it _hurt_ , the way it burned his eyes to look at the ocean catching the too-bright reflection of the sun in its swells. He turned his gaze away briefly, embarrassed by the depth of his own longing. He crossed the room and laid the bag of pastries down on the corner table before turning to look at Aziraphale.

It took Crowley’s breath away to see him sleeping. So rarely did Aziraphale sleep that Crowley could count on his fingers the number of times he had ever seen him in slumber. Serene as the sea on a warm summer day, his even, measured breathing like the murmur of the waves washing against the shore. Crowley’s hand hovered over Aziraphale’s shoulder for a moment, but he pulled away before he could touch him.

“Wake up, angel,” Crowley whispered.

There was a slight movement of Aziraphale’s head, a soft sigh escaping his lips. Crowley watched, entranced at the sight of Aziraphale stirring back to wakefulness like the dawn breaking over the horizon, Aziraphale’s awareness illuminating the room once more as his eyes opened slowly, still clouded with sleep. Crowley never tired of looking at them, fascinated by how they shifted colour with his moods – sometimes the grey of the sea in a storm, or a changing mix of blues and greens in hues as clear as the ocean.

Aziraphale blinked, eyelashes fluttering softly before he turned his head towards Crowley, eyes hazy with drowsiness. Crowley stood there, not knowing what to do with his hands, his heart caught in his throat.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, the name barely louder than a breath on his lips.

His fingertips tapped lightly against the tartan blanket that lay beneath him. The gesture caught Crowley’s eye – it had always been like this with Aziraphale, learning to forecast the signs that lay in the movements of his hands, the quirk of his mouth, the lines around his eyes. Gingerly, Crowley sat down on the very edge of the mattress, trying not to put too much weight on the bed.

Aziraphale reached out, his fingers closing around the green fabric of Crowley’s sleeve. Crowley was held in place, pinned by the searching gaze, and felt as though the sea of those eyes were swallowing him whole.

“I thought I was dreaming,” Aziraphale said, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Not a dream. Sorry to disappoint.” The corners of Crowley’s lips turned upward almost mockingly.

“What time is it? What _day_ is it?”

Crowley glanced at his watch.

“It’s 4:19 in the afternoon and it’s Sunday, the 5th of July.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathed. “I overslept.”

“Yeah, sleeping? S’not like you, angel.”

“I was – what was that lovely American expression? ‘Giving it the old college try,’ as you do. While I was… waiting.”

His hand tightened on the folds of Crowley’s sleeve. For a moment, Crowley rather felt as though those fingers had tightened around his own throat, a sensation of drowning on dry land, as though he couldn’t get enough air into the lungs that didn’t need oxygen to survive. The words poured out of him in a torrent.

“Look, angel. I know I should have answered. I was asleep. Didn’t realise it was you. I would have answered otherwise.” _I only wanted another five minutes and I lost five entire days without you._

To Crowley’s dismay, Aziraphale’s gaze darkened.

“Expecting a lot of calls, were you?”

“No!”

He’d answered too quickly, and his chest constricted with trepidation at the thought that Aziraphale might send him away again with another curtly worded explanation about _the rules_ and how they needed to stay apart, in that voice that constantly whispered in his ear, _get thee behind me, founder upon the rocks of your own iniquity, vanish._

“I’m sorry,” Crowley tried again, his voice grating with tension.

Aziraphale was still gazing at him with that strange look on his face. It was foolish of him to hope, he knew. He thought things might be different, after that night Aziraphale had spent at his flat after they had successfully averted Armageddon.

But the weeks that had passed made it obvious that as far as Aziraphale was concerned, they were simply to settle back down into the ebb and flow of their old lives, Crowley slithering over to the bookshop, hunkering down for as long as he could until Aziraphale’s next pointed comment about the lateness of the hour or the growing number of empty wine bottles on his kitchen table.

Over one year later, and nothing had changed.

“You’re not wearing black,” Aziraphale murmured suddenly, breaking the silence. “Are you certain I’m not dreaming?”

“Would a dream have this?”

Crowley cocked his head in the direction of the bag of pastries that lay on the table, and Aziraphale’s face brightened, the sun breaking through the clouds of a brewing storm.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” Crowley groaned.

To his surprise, Aziraphale made no move toward the pastries. He simply lay there gazing at Crowley, with some expression in his eyes that Crowley could not name, his fingers still holding Crowley’s sleeve. He could feel the blood creeping up to his face.

“Well, don’t you want any?” He asked, trying in vain to shift Aziraphale’s attention back to the food.

“I do, but not right now,” Aziraphale said after a long moment. “Has it really only been two months since I last saw you? You look so… different.”

Crowley’s chest seized up suddenly. Too much of a change. Aziraphale wouldn’t like that. He cast his mind about frantically, struggling to find something familiar to cling to. _It’s still me,_ he wanted to say. _Just the same as I’ve always been._ But that wasn’t quite true anymore either.

“S’not the first time you’ve seen me with a new hairstyle.”

“Crowley, you –”

“You should be used to that by now.”

“Yes, but –”

“I thought it’d be nice if things changed, eh?”

Damn it all to Hell, he’d gone and put his foot in it now. He hadn’t meant for that to slip out. He clamped his mouth shut and looked away. The mattress shifted beneath him, and when he turned to look, he was stunned to find Aziraphale sitting up, his face inches from Crowley’s, the blue-green-grey ocean of his eyes fixed on him intently.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed, so close that Crowley felt the gust of his breath sweep across his skin. He let go of Crowley’s sleeve, lifted a tentative hand toward his face. “May I?”

A strangled noise left Crowley’s mouth. He sat frozen, managing only a tiny jerk of his head as Aziraphale reached forward and lifted the dark sunglasses off his face, more gently than he could have imagined, and leaned over for a moment to carefully place his glasses on the table next to the pastries.

“There. Now I can see you.”

Aziraphale straightened up once more to look at Crowley, who felt suddenly self-conscious under Aziraphale’s gaze, unmoored and scrambling to gather his bearings without the most crucial part of his armour. What was left of him now that the last bit of his old skin had been peeled away? He was exposed to the elements, raw and vulnerable, adrift in a shoreless sea.

“What’re you staring at?” It came out more harshly than Crowley had intended, and he shifted awkwardly. “I’m trying out something new, is all.”

“How do you feel?”

“About what?”

“Your… something new.”

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “S’not that bad once you get used to it, I guess.”

Aziraphale hummed in agreement.

“I rather like it.”

“It was your idea, after all.”

“Well, don’t wear it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

To Crowley’s shock, Aziraphale reached out and touched him gently, his hand running down in a fluid motion from Crowley’s shoulder to his elbow, leaving a trail of heat in its wake on Crowley’s skin. He shivered minutely.

“But I think… it suits you very much. It sets off the colour of your hair wonderfully, too.”

Crowley spluttered incoherently for a moment, taken aback.

“It – s’nothing special, really.”

“I beg to differ.” Aziraphale hesitated for a moment. “It’s very striking. Lovely, really.”

Bloody Hell, Crowley’s face was on fire. He looked away, clearing his throat.

“Anyway, why – why were you calling me the other day?”

“Oh.” Out of the corner of his eye, Crowley saw Aziraphale’s gaze drop to his hands, fingers fidgeting in his lap. “Well, I wanted to know if you were awake yet.”

“M’awake now,” Crowley said gruffly. “Did you need something?”

“No. Not exactly. It wasn’t anything, well.”

“Out with it, angel.”

“It’s just that… the past two months went by so slowly,” Aziraphale said softly, still staring down at his hands.

“Again, it was your idea,” Crowley reminded him, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “But it’s over now, isn’t it? London’s open again, sort of. We can go somewhere, anywhere you like. My treat.”

“Ah, well, it’s a little more complicated than that. Honestly, I don’t know what the humans are thinking,” Aziraphale sighed.

“You can say that again.”

“In any case, Crowley, you should wear a face mask when you go out, just for appearances’ sake.”

“Fine.” Crowley growled. “Whatever you want, angel. C’mon, the Bentley’s waiting.”

He made to get up, but was stopped by the unexpected touch of Aziraphale’s hand on his forearm.

“Wait.”

Crowley looked up to find Aziraphale gazing at him, his face oddly flushed.

“Before we go anywhere… there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“What?”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

There was a very definite sense of panic rising in Crowley now. His words seemed to have left him temporarily, all conscious thought concentrating itself on the warm pressure on his arm.

“You’ve seen the news, I assume?”

Crowley’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“The news about the support bubbles?” Aziraphale clarified.

“Er… sort of? I browsed through the news on my way here.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Don’t you start on my driving,” Crowley warned.

“I wasn’t going to.” Aziraphale sniffed. “Crowley, the lockdown rules have changed.”

“Yeah, I know that much. Otherwise, you’d be telling me off for being here.”

A twinge of regret went through Crowley as Aziraphale winced.

“Yes, well. Essentially, a household of one person can form a support bubble with another household. They can visit each other’s homes without the social distancing rules.”

“Okay…” Crowley said slowly. “So what?”

“I wanted to ask you if you would form a support bubble with me,” Aziraphale said in a rush.

“Sure.” Crowley shrugged, watching Aziraphale curiously. “Whatever you want.”

“No. I want you to –” Aziraphale stuttered slightly, cleared his throat. “Stay. Here.”

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. He was probably misunderstanding. Aziraphale had been bored during the lockdown, that’s all, and no wonder – he was used to having people coming in and out of the bookshop, going out to eat in restaurants where the chefs knew him by name, watching operas and plays and making small talk at the corner deli and the neighbourhood market.

“Like I said, angel, whatever you want.”

“No,” Aziraphale said again. There was a tempest brewing in his eyes now, agitated and restless as the sea in a storm. “Only if you want to.”

Crowley swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“What exactly are you asking me, Aziraphale?”

The hand on his arm slid down, fingers lightly pushing themselves into the spaces between Crowley’s fingers and settling in, holding his hand in the warmth of his grip. Crowley gazed at their hands for a moment, his lips parted in disbelief.

“I’m asking you if you want to stay here at the bookshop.”

Aziraphale’s hand squeezed Crowley’s gently, and the meaning of his words was unmistakeable. But Crowley was lost, unsure how to navigate these strange waters Aziraphale had led them into, feeling as though he might be dashed on the rocks any moment with one wrong move.

“Why?”

“Because I want you here.” Aziraphale’s voice trembled slightly. “I want you here with me.”

“I don’t understand,” Crowley whispered. He wished he had his glasses on for this. It was too much to take in, and he was sinking in the turbulence of Aziraphale’s eyes.

“I thought I would be able to manage, carrying on the way we always have since time immemorial. But I can’t.” A long exhale left Aziraphale’s lips.

“What –”

“I will not oblige you, of course, you are free to do as you like. But you must know, Crowley. I know you do. You know how I feel.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand again, so tight it nearly hurt. “Please stay. Stay here with me.”

He should be happy, he thought to himself. But the fear of drowning persisted, the waters buffeting him every which way, pulling him to who knows where, Scylla and Charybdis lying in wait on the horizon to consume whatever was left of him until he sank down into the endless depths of the sea.

“I don’t, though, do I?” He finally scraped out. “I don’t know how you feel.”

 _Greedy,_ he admonished himself. Always grasping for more, never content with what was given to him, questioning everything until it was stripped of all meaning.

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked as lost as he felt. “I thought…”

“I don’t.”

“But… Couldn’t you tell?”

“I really, truly have no idea,” Crowley gritted out, his teeth clenched together. “You’re going to have to spell that one out for me.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

Aziraphale raised their clasped hands, pressed his lips against the back of Crowley’s hand, and the heat of it burned through Crowley as though it were an iron brand. Aziraphale held Crowley’s hand against his face, his eyes searching Crowley’s urgently.

“How could you not know?” Aziraphale whispered. “I – I love you, dearest.”

Crowley wrenched his hand out of Aziraphale’s, unable to breathe.

“Don’t say that,” he said, nearly begging, barely able to speak around the tightness in his throat. “Don’t do this.”

“Crowley –”

“You can’t take that back, Aziraphale. Don’t do this to me.” He dragged in a sharp breath through his teeth, shuddering, trying to keep his head above water, fear coursing through his veins. _Don’t panic, or you’ll drown_. “I don’t think I’ll be able to take it.”

As if Aziraphale could ever love such a thing as himself, the ruins of a cast-out angel, desecrated and burned and moulded into a creature of Hell. _You are a demon,_ the voice whispered venom-laced words in his ear, _we’re hereditary enemies._ He knew how Aziraphale truly saw him, pitied him for the salt of his split heart always spilling over, spread out on the sand. He turned away, unable to look at Aziraphale.

“It took me… far too long,” Aziraphale whispered. “You should have heard this a long time ago. Forgive me.”

Crowley shook his head incredulously, his back still turned.

“Stop it.”

“Hear me out, please,” Aziraphale said, his voice desperate. “It was when you rescued me, that night at the church. Do you remember? When you saved my books of prophecy?”

As if Crowley could ever forget. The soles of his feet tingled with phantom pain at the memory of the searing heat of walking on consecrated ground.

“That was when I realised it. I’ve always loved you, Crowley. But I didn’t know it, not until then.” Aziraphale’s voice broke, and Crowley ached to hear it.

“I thought I was doing the best I could to show you, even if I couldn’t…” Aziraphale paused, as though collecting himself. “I didn’t say it out loud. But I was wrong. I should have tried harder.”

A warm hand touched Crowley’s elbow.

“Crowley, please. Let me make this right.”

A thumb brushed against his sleeve, rubbing a circular pattern rhythmically into his skin.

“Won’t you look at me?”

Crowley’s heart broke at the pained sound of Aziraphale’s voice, but he didn’t turn around, and he didn’t trust himself to speak. He laid his fingers lightly over Aziraphale’s hand on his arm, squeezed it once. He was _exhausted,_ he thought distantly, fatigued from being subjected to every whim of the waves, worn thin by the long millennia of being pulled by the currents.

Here he was now, his chains unloosed, at last free to set his own course. But he was lost at sea without knowing which way was north and which was south, deprived even of his stars to guide his way.

The bed shifted, and Crowley felt fingertips lightly exploring the uneven planes of his back before Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around his middle and pulled him in close, until Aziraphale’s chest was pressed flush against his back, Aziraphale’s breath warm against his shoulder.

“Please stay with me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice so low that Crowley barely heard it. “Stay with me here. Let me make up for all the time I’ve missed.”

Crowley was entirely out of his depth, and only Aziraphale’s warmth was still keeping him firmly moored to reality. Six thousand years of being yanked by the throat by the undertow, and at last, at long last, the tide was finally turning. He laid his hand over Aziraphale’s arm encircling his waist, overwhelmed with disbelief, but now there was something resembling joy washing over it, filling in the cracks that had been left by the long years of waiting and hoping against hope.

After a long moment, Crowley pulled away to look at Aziraphale in the eye. There was no map or compass that could guide them through these unnavigated waters, but he would choose to trust that Aziraphale would be with him. Aziraphale was his anchor, the only thing he was still certain of in this strange new world. Somehow, they would chart a course together until they made it safely ashore.

“I – I’ll stay, angel,” he said, his throat burning. “For as long as you want me.”

“I’ll _always_ want you. All of you.”

Something flared up in Crowley at the possessiveness in Aziraphale’s voice, but as his hands reached up to cup Crowley’s face, his touch was nothing but tender, brushing over the sharp lines of Crowley’s face, lingering on his cheekbones reverently with his thumbs.

Crowley had to say it now, or else he never would.

“Angel, I...” He paused, trying to pull himself together, willing himself not let the salt run down his cheeks. “You know – you know I love you.”

Aziraphale smiled, so radiantly that it stunned Crowley how beautiful he was. He wondered anew how such a magnificent being could truly want something like himself, cast out and despoiled as he was, ravaged by sulphur and brimstone in the deepest pits of Hell.

But as Aziraphale leaned in, his lips soft and warm against Crowley’s, his hands gentle against Crowley’s skin, he suddenly understood. All those years of giving so much of himself over to Aziraphale had changed Crowley too – the ageless tide of Crowley’s love wearing down his own broken edges.

This was who he was now, cast into fire and now tempered in water, in the vast deep sea of Aziraphale’s eyes, his hands shaping Crowley into someone entirely new – and yet, he was still himself all along, even beyond the end of all things – a flash bastard with just a little bit of a good person in him, someone who was entirely worthy of being loved.

**Author's Note:**

> Tried my hand at writing a fic that is also a character study. This is a deviation from my usual writing style - let me know what you think!!
> 
> This was largely inspired by this amazing artwork by [lonicera](https://twitter.com/loni_capri/status/1276700521559187457) on Twitter - they're one of my favourite GO artists, check them out if you haven't yet!
> 
> Fic title and a handful of the sea metaphors here from the poem [Gabu](http://edieislove.blogspot.com/2011/01/it-is-sea-pursues-habit-of-shores.html).
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


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